Error of Judgement
by Jeannie-Mckay
Summary: A holiday to Cornwall brings much more than Dr Watson had hoped for.
1. Not a disease but an error of judgement

Title: Error of Judgement

Rating: T (deals with drug abuse, so I'm not sure if the rating will skip up to M at some point)

Summary: A holiday to Cornwall brings much more than Dr Watson had hoped for. Adaptation of 'The Devil's Foot'

Disclaimer: I do not own anything do with 'Sherlock', no matter how happy it would make me. Maybe one day I shall ask The Moff and Godtiss if I can have them for a day?

Author's Note: This has been knocking around on my computer for a year or so now; it was going to be posted a while ago but then I read that 'The Devil's Foot' is a very popular story for fanfic writers to adapt and so I was slightly worried that this would bore people or wouldn't compare to others. I haven't read any other 'Sherlock' versions of this story, so I haven't been influenced by anything other than the original canon. This story is one of my favourites (just below 'The Speckled Band') and so I thought I'd have a go at putting it in the new universe of Holmes. Please do let me know what you think so far. I've got a couple of chapters already written, so I will try to keep on top of it.

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><p><em>The Personal Blog of John H. Watson<em>

_Apologies for the lack of any substantial post recently; life has been pretty dull around here, which I'm sure you'll understand is rather bad for Sherlock. He likes to be occupied, having cases gives his brain something to work at and he hates being idle. You'll no doubt remember the incident of him shooting the wall; well thankfully he hasn't resorted to that yet, but there are times when it's somewhat dangerous to leave him unoccupied for long periods of time._

_This is the reason for this post, it's simply to say that we will be not be contactable (yes, Lestrade, please don't try to ring him up and get him on another case! That's doctor's orders!) for the next few weeks. We are heading for a…holiday and I doubt internet access will be brilliant there. I just wanted to post this to reassure you that we are both alive and that write-ups of more cases will no doubt follow once we're both fully rested._

_Yours,_

_John H. Watson_

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><p>John pushed his chair back from the computer slightly, staring at the message he'd just typed. He hadn't wanted to make any hint towards the seriousness of the situation; after all he was sure Lestrade for one would simply arrive for yet another drugs bust but this time there was a greater likelihood he'd find something. With a sigh he clicked the 'post' button on the page, before clicking off the internet and closing down his laptop. He still couldn't believe what had happened over the last few days; it all seemed like some sort of horrible nightmare.<p>

The male pushed his chair away from the desk he had placed his laptop on and stood, turning his attention to his bedroom and doing a quick check that he'd packed everything of significance already. He was quite sure that when he went downstairs Sherlock wouldn't be anywhere near ready, but maybe this time he had something of an excuse.

"Idiot." He breathed, shaking his head slightly as he thought of his friend. He couldn't believe the stupidity of that man, you would have thought with an intellect like Sherlock's he'd know how to take care of himself, but alas that was not the case. Finally John moved towards his suitcase it wasn't particularly big, but seeing as Mycroft had managed to rent them a small cottage he was quite sure he'd be able to wash his clothes and reuse them. He left his bags by the bed, deciding that it was probably best to check on the detective below first. It was a testament to how much he'd learnt about Sherlock after nearly a year of living with him when he wasn't surprised to see his friend still curled up in his chair by the fire. It didn't look like he'd moved at all since John had instructed him to pack because they would have to leave soon in order to catch the train.

"Sherlock, are you packed?" He knew what the answer would be, but he could pray that he would be mistaken. However, the look Sherlock shot him told him that he shouldn't have bothered with prayers.

"Of course not, John. We're not going." John rolled his eyes, letting his suitcase drop to the floor with a thud.

"Yes we are."

"No we're not."

"Yes we…Sherlock we are not going to argue over this. You need a break, so do I. We're going to Cornwall to have a holiday."

"I don't need a holiday." John's eyes narrowed at this, they had had this discussion before and for some reason Sherlock constantly thought he was fine.

"Yes you do and that's final. I don't want to come back from work to find you dead on the sofa." His tone was matter of fact but he had to supress a shudder at the memory of last week. He'd slowly learnt about Sherlock's past but he hadn't been confronted with it until recently and so it had been more than a shock to arrive home to…that.

Sherlock waved his hand airily, as though to say that he shouldn't worry about such things. It was a gesture that only prompted John to bristle with agitation, how could his friend not care about what they'd gone through recently? Did he not give a damn that he could have died? Apparently not. Apparently he wanted to sit in London regardless of his health or what the _three_ doctors they'd seen had said.

"Sherlock, if you don't pack I will do it for you." With that John made his way towards Sherlock's room, behind him he could hear muttering and he thought he caught the odd word that sounded like it might have been a threat but he ignored it. He was not going to sit by and watch his friend's health deteriorate again when he had a chance at finally giving him a proper break. That thought encouraged him to turn the door knob and enter the bedroom; he'd never been in here before, it had always seemed an almost unspoken rule that they would never enter one another's small sanctums. As he gazed around the strangely pristine room he wondered if the detective had ever been in here either.

The room held almost the same proportions as his above; the bed's headboard was against the wall to his right, a bedside table next to it and a wardrobe opposite. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, maybe clothes strewn everywhere, the odd severed limb hanging from the ceiling maybe but definitely not a very clean, very Spartan bedroom.

It didn't take him long to find a suitcase and begin to pack some clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste along with other things he classed as essentials. It was entirely possible he'd forget something that Sherlock thought was vital, but if the man wasn't going to get up and pack for himself then he'd just have to make do with John's attempts.

When the last item had been placed carefully in the bag and the zip had been pulled closed, he straightened up and stretched slightly. As he did so he heard a small cough from behind him, he turned slowly and raised an eyebrow as he saw Sherlock watching him intently. He wondered how long the detective had been there, whether he'd watched him do all the work or had just appeared to see if John had destroyed anything.

"You're packed now; do you want me to take your bag downstairs?" Sherlock gave a small grunt that John took to mean 'yes please', and so he bent down to grab the handle of the suitcase.

"Why do we have to go?" It was the childish whine he had been expecting, but somewhere deep down he understood why his friend was having trouble comprehending the reason why they had to leave London for a while.

"We're going because you need some time away, time to rest and you're never going to get that here. Lestrade, Bradstreet or even Mycroft will come round demanding your attention and you'll be off running around for them –"

"I never run around _for _them, John –"

"Whatever. You'll end up making yourself worse because you're not taking the time to recover. We'll take a few weeks out, enjoy the countryside and then when you're better we'll come back home. Not before." His tone would have made long-serving soldiers bow their heads in compliance but with Sherlock it simply earned him a glare, as the younger man turned and walked back to the living room. John was pleased to note that he seemed to have a bit more energy, although he was sure that was partly due to the fact that he was angry and not that he'd been spending more time in bed.

With another sigh he grabbed the extendable handle of the suitcase and began to drag it downstairs, he was already beginning to dread the train journey but once Sherlock was in the countryside he was hoping he'd settle down and actually take time to recuperate. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he saw Mrs Hudson peering out from her own rooms, he shot her a reassuring smile that he was quite sure didn't reach all the way to his eyes but he didn't want her to worry about them. She'd done enough of that recently.

"He'll be fine, Mrs Hudson, and we'll be back before you know it." He placed the suitcase by the door before turning to head back up the stairs for his own bags.

"You'll take good care of him, John. I know you will." Another smile graced his lips, although this time it was tinged with sadness and regret. He gave a quick nod before he started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Below he heard Mrs Hudson moving towards the stairs and sure enough he heard her voice calling after him, "And remind him I'm not his housekeeper, I don't want to keep on cleaning up after him." He chuckled softly as he remembered the mess Sherlock had left for Mrs Hudson just the other day, her eyes had bulged as he lay on the sofa and had managed to twist her round his finger as he complained about being too weak to move very far. In the end she'd cleaned up for him and cooked him dinner, all the while reminding him that he shouldn't expect this all the time. John had returned to find the detective looking rather smug as he sipped some home-made soup and their landlady muttering about toes in the toaster.

"Come on Sherlock, we're going in a minute." He called into the living room before he ran up to his own rooms, behind him he could hear vague curses being shot at his back but he ignored them. This was going to be an interesting holiday; he'd probably have to spend most of it forcing the blasted man to stay in bed. As he reached his rooms he double checked his medical kit, he had taken out as many pain relieving drugs as possible, taking only the bare essentials just in case they found themselves in a tricky situation yet again. He'd dealt with addicts before but never had he lived with one before, this was all new territory for him but Mycroft had assured him that padlocks and the like would have no effect, it was better to just remove as much as possible and keep a beady eye on him.

Below he could hear Sherlock banging things in the vague hope that John would decide that because of the childish tantrum they wouldn't be going away; all it did was steel his resolve and remind him of the reasons why they had to get away. He grasped his bags and headed out of his room, closing and locking the door before he moved down the stairs and had to duck as a slipper was thrown at his head.

"We're not going!" The cry followed the slipper but John ignored it, took the bags to join Sherlock's by the front door and ran back up to the living room. Without a word he moved towards the fridge, opened it and pulled out a rather gruesome looking foot on a platter. He held it up so Sherlock could see and moved towards the window; his friend's eyes followed him, horror slowly dawning on his face.

"What are you doing? John, put it down! You can't mess with that experiment!" The doctor ignored him, instead he opened the window managing to keep the platter out of the way of the fresh air for the moment but he had every intention of throwing it out if Sherlock didn't do as he was told.

"If you don't get downstairs to that taxi then I will make sure every last experiment in this flat is destroyed." His tone was deadly serious, never before had he threatened such a thing but this time he was only thinking of his friend's health and if this was the only way of assuring Sherlock's cooperation then he would do it.

"You wouldn't." The tone was confident but the eyes betrayed real fear for all his work that could be lost. John didn't respond, he simply stared at his friend and waited to see what his response would be. Slowly the platter moved closer to the open air until eventually,

"Fine, I'm going. Just put it back in the fridge." Suddenly Sherlock was on his feet and heading out of the door; John heaved a slight sigh of relief as he moved back to the fridge and placed the foot back on its shelf. With one last glance around the room he followed the detective down the stairs, picked up the first lot of bags, opened the front door and placed them in the boot of the taxi. It had been sat there for the past five minutes and the driver was most definitely not amused. Once all the bags were loaded they said 'goodbye' to Mrs Hudson, or rather John did whilst Sherlock sat morosely in the back of the cab. Before long they were trundling towards Paddington station with Sherlock staring resolutely out of the window and refusing to make any sort of conversation with either John or the cabbie.


	2. Pass judgement on the past

Here's the second chapter and at the moment I'm going to go for the whole updating once a week. So every Monday I will strive to get a chapter up. Thank-you so much to all who've reviewed and alerted this story so far, hopefully it won't disappoint. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

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><p>If John had been hoping that Sherlock's mood would improve the closer they got to Cornwall then he was severally mistaken. The detective continued to refuse to speak to him the entire way to the train station, the whole time they were stood on the platform and when they had finally boarded he simply sat down and promptly fell asleep. John had merely rolled his eyes, pulled a book out of his bag and settled down for a quiet, possibly restful journey.<p>

He remained engrossed in his book for an hour, so much so that it was up to Sherlock to remind him that they had to disembark at Plymouth and board yet another train that would take them on. He settled himself back down and was almost ready to start reading again when he noticed his friend was staring sullenly around at the other passengers. It wasn't a huge train, in fact there was barely enough room for the detective to sit comfortably, but it was most definitely crowded. It didn't take long for the silence between them to end; apparently Sherlock had given up on ignoring him for the moment and had decided that now, in the middle of a fairly quiet carriage was a good time to begin deducing people.

"That man is heading to Truro in order to conduct an illicit affair with a woman at least ten years his junior." He pointed, rather obviously John thought, to the male sat three rows away from them on the opposite side. He was tapping away on his iPhone, slight frown lines appearing on his face the more he typed but John could see no tell-tale indications that Sherlock's ideas were correct. When he pointed this out to his friend, the younger man stared at him as though he was being deliberately obtuse before elaborating.

"Let us start at the obvious; the ring finger on his right hand has a band of fairer skin where a wedding ring would rest. Why has he removed it? It is not customary to remove one's wedding band when heading to a meeting or something similar, so immediately we have intrigue John." Sherlock's eyes were alight, just as they always were when he was doing what he loved. This was the happiest he'd seen him in a long time, it was reassuring somehow. "Why else would he remove his ring? It clearly indicates he is unfaithful. The ticket he placed in his pocket a few moments ago when the ticket inspector appeared stated he was heading to Truro; to be leaving at this time it is plausible he told his wife he was headed to a meeting although I will admit that cannot be confirmed without data. He has been on his phone for the past ten minutes, at first he was smiling indicating he was corresponding with someone he found pleasing whereas now I would surmise his wife has been in contact."

"How do you know she's ten years his junior?" John couldn't help but ask, he was always fascinated by any and all deductions his friend made and somehow he was always swept away by them. One day he hoped he'd be able to break this spell his flatmate had on him, but for now he was content to simply go with the flow, listen and learn.

"Besides the fact that most men who have affairs tend to go for young, busty, blondes?" John couldn't help but snort at this, causing Mr Adulterous to glare over at the two of them. Sherlock's voice dropped slightly so that he couldn't be overheard, "He has attempted to dye his hair in order to hide the grey that is appearing in it, you will note the colour differences between the roots and the tips. Probably used a cheap brand and had to use it quickly before his wife discovered it."

"Brilliant." The doctor shook his head slightly at the amazing thought processes this man was capable of, even though he'd been living with this marvel for nigh on a year he doubted he'd be able to deduce anything about anyone on this train. As though he had read his thoughts his friend nudged him gently, pointing to a particularly plump woman sat not too far from Mr Adulterous. He then received a look that clearly stated 'deduce her'.

"No, Sherlock."

"Why not?"

"Firstly, that's your territory and you know I'm useless at it. Secondly, I am not going to make up wild statements about strangers on a train!"

"I don't make things up, John."

"I know you don't, but I would be."

"No you wouldn't."

"Yes I would."

"No you wou-"

"Stop it, Sherlock. Honestly, why do you want to do this?"

"I'm bored and it's a game."

"Most people play i-spy." John muttered turning back to his book.

"Fine, i-spy with my little eye a woman who has had three children, two before she was twenty but has never married. She is holding out for a whirlwind romance, no doubt wishing some stranger will come and sweep her off her feet. She's going to Devon to see her mother who she's been worrying about for some time; she's recently lost her father and finds you most attractive."

"That's not how you play the game."

"My way's better."

"No it's n - what do you mean she finds me attractive?" His friend simply smirked at him, settled back in his seat and feigned sleep. Nothing John did could rouse him, no matter how much he poked and prodded him. After this spiel he found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on his book, occasionally glancing up to catch the woman staring at him. Once she smiled and waved at him, her fingers crooking in a failed attempt at appearing coy. The male smiled back half-heartedly before staring resolutely at the page, once he thought he heard the detective next to him chuckle but he was sure he'd imagined it.

After another hour the train began to slow once again; John glanced up from his book to see the scenery out of the window had changed from a mass of buildings to the occasional house scattered in between trees. He hadn't been to the countryside in years, not since those childhood holidays with Harry and his parents. They'd always come to Cornwall or Devon, heading to small seaside B&BS and enjoying the change of pace. He and Harry would spend far too much time on the beach, burying one another in the sand or else skimming stones. What he'd give to go back to that childhood innocence!

Bodmin Parkway Station was coming into view, the platform fairly full as people waited to either embark or else welcome friends and family. He packed his book back into his bag before turning to his friend, slightly surprised to see the detective awake and alert. He would have expected some sort of lethargy after the fuss he'd kicked up about coming here in the first place.

As the train rolled to a stop the two men stood, gathered their bags together and disembarked. The platform was relatively small but John couldn't help but enjoy the rather picturesque setting; this was far better than Paddington. Behind him he could hear the occasional grumble which indicated his friend's distaste but he ignored it. Instead he dragged his suitcase towards the waiting room hoping he'd see a payphone soon so he could order a taxi. They had to get to Pebble Cottage and he had no idea where it was in relation to Bodmin.

Just as he was about to push the door open to the small waiting area Sherlock groaned loudly; John turned wondering what had happened now, but rather than seeing those grey eyes rolling heavenward he saw they were staring at the car park. With care he wheeled his suitcase backwards slightly, following the detective's gaze and blinking suddenly as he saw what had captured Sherlock's attention. A black car was parked not too far from them; the back windows were tinted and in the front two men sat both in dark suits with black hats. As one of the men realised they were being watched he got out of the car, straightened his jacket and moved to the back door, he opened it and stared back at them.

"Mycroft?" John asked, not entirely sure whether he wanted to get into a car with two strangers. He would never get used to being friends with someone whose brother practically ran the British Government. It seemed he could organise virtually anything.

"Naturally. He never could do subtle." With a sigh his friend began to walk towards the car and after a moment's hesitation John followed him; as they approached the open door the black-suited man stepped away and gestured vaguely towards their bags. John tried to keep hold of his, trying to insist that he could put his in the boot but before he knew what was happening it had been wrestled off him and he was clambering into the back seat next to Sherlock. The door closed behind him and then the engine rumbled to life, he pulled his seatbelt across himself before glancing over at the man next to him.

"This a common occurrence?" He asked, not sure he would ever get used to essentially being kidnapped by Mycroft's henchmen, even if their intentions did tend to be good.

"He thinks that because he finds it difficult to walk more than ten paces the rest of the human race are the same." John's eyebrows knitted together in silent reproof at those words, he didn't understand why the two Holmes siblings did not see eye to eye and so he did not enjoy listening to his friend badmouthing his brother. There was also the worry that Mycroft had spies everywhere and he didn't want to find himself taken to some remote corner of the planet and left there, simply because he'd chuckled at one of Sherlock's biting remarks.

"Mr Holmes left this for you, Sir." The doctor couldn't help but jump at the unexpected voice; he looked towards the front passenger seat of the car and saw that black-suited man was holding out an envelope to them. Beside him Sherlock shifted forwards and took it, his long fingers running once over the envelope before he flicked it open and pulled out the paper within. John watched as his eyes ran over the writing, then with a snort he shoved it towards him and began to stare out of the window. John took the paper, glancing down at the small, spidery writing and began to read.

_Dear Sherlock and John,_

_I hope your train journey was enjoyable; John I hope you kept my brother from making too much of a fool of himself. This car will take you to Pebble Cottage and will collect you in three weeks; if you need the assistance of either Derek or Peter then you simply need to dial 3 on the speed dial at the cottage. _

_I highly recommend you take a chance to visit the local pub; John try to keep Sherlock on his best behaviour._

_My best to both of you and enjoy your holiday._

_Mycroft Holmes._

"That's…nice?" He said, folding the paper up and placing it in his trouser pocket. He was beginning to understand the eldest Holmes sibling's protectiveness but that still didn't mean he was going to be comfortable calling upon their own personal car. He'd much rather have ordered a taxi, leaving Sherlock with no way of getting back to the station and catching the first train back to London. Now he'd have to find a way to keep the detective resting, which was far easier said than done. It was true that Sherlock's energy levels had been low recently, the incident had stripped him of his usual vigour but John knew that once he began to grow bored things could turn dangerous. He was still in turmoil over how to deal with the issue; it would do little good to lecture his friend and yet the delicate approach would have even less of an impact.

He turned and gazed out of the window at the countryside flashing past, once or twice he thought he saw a glimpse of the sea but it soon disappeared behind hills or fields. For the moment he had to concentrate on their holiday, making sure that his friend was kept out of trouble and then when they returned to London he could make a plan of how to keep the detective from temptation. Maybe he could organise a few crimes? Petty things…no, that was a ridiculous idea. He wasn't going to orchestrate a new, small crime ring just to keep one sociopath happy. Maybe he could talk to Mycroft, no doubt he'd know of ways to keep his younger sibling on the rails. Hopefully.

After at least half an hour's drive the car turned off the tiny roads onto even smaller country lanes, for once John was glad he hadn't rented a car for the journey. If he'd been driving he would have been absolutely terrified of meeting a tractor or something equally massive and getting stuck in the ditches on either side of them. He spared a glance over towards his companion but the black-haired male was still staring out of the window, seemingly uninterested in their surroundings. That was never a good sign.

A part of him wanted to engage Sherlock in conversation, get him talking about something that he would find interesting but every time he opened his mouth his mind went blank. Instead he sighed softly and turned back to the window.

They remained in silence for the rest of the journey, until the sea finally came into view and John let out an audible gasp. He wasn't even sure why he was in awe; it wasn't like he'd never seen the sea before but it just looked so beautiful and so different to their recent scenery. London might be gorgeous in its own right but this was something different. Next to him he heard his friend stir followed by a soft chuckle.

"I never knew you were such a romantic, John." The doctor turned swiftly in his seat, shooting the detective a glare before he settled back in his seat and watched through the windscreen as the coast grew closer.

"I suppose we're nearly there." Sherlock's bored voice cut into the silence about five minutes later and indeed John could see what he guessed had to be their cottage. It was set slightly back from the edge of the huge, towering cliffs and it was, as the name suggested, covered with pebbles. It truly was idyllic; if only they'd come here under better circumstances.

The car rolled up the drive before stopping not too far from the front door; the cottage was surrounded by a very well maintained garden, consisting of a small rose bush to their left and a mighty elm to their right. Flowerbeds were dotted around the grass but if you turned around the sea spread out before you, the cliffs the only things that kept you from the water.

"What's this place called again?" Sherlock asked as they exited the car, he barely gave the cottage a second glance instead he seemed far more interested in the dramatic scenery behind them.

"Um…" John racked his brain, trying to remember the small amount of research he'd done just before they'd come here, "Poldhu Bay. Looks nice doesn't it?"

"It'll do your writing some good." The older man's eyebrows drew together in confusion at this statement until his companion elaborated, "You have a flare for the dramatic, and where better to gain inspiration than a rather dramatic coastline." John rolled his eyes and moved towards the house, feeling slightly uncomfortable at leaving his bags for the black-suited men to unload from the car and bring inside.

Suddenly Sherlock was brushing past him, practically gliding through the front door which was mysteriously unlocked and out of the sight. John followed him, taking one last glance at the landscape behind him. Hopefully, this break would be good for them both he might get the chance he needed to catch up on his notes of their previous cases as well as having the perfect excuse to check up on his friend at any moment. Whilst Sherlock would have a chance to relax away from their rooms and away from the temptation of whatever concoction of narcotics he'd started taking.

Yes, maybe this was what they both needed.

From within the house there came the sound of breaking china; with a resigned grimace John realised that it wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped.


	3. From error to error

_From error to error, one discovers the entire truth - Sigmund Freud._

A quick thank-you to all who've reviewed, alerted and favourited this story so far. It's lovely to know that you guys are enjoying it so far, and I'm doing my best to keep on top of it because I have a clear idea of where this is headed now. Hope you enjoy this chapter and please let me know what you think!

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><p>Sunlight crept slowly into the small bedroom, hitting the narrow bed and illuminating the sleeping figure beneath the covers. The room was quiet apart from the occasional soft snore emanating from the sleeper. The rest of the house was silent, nothing stirred even the waves were being strangely quiet as they broke against the cliffs.<p>

After a few moments the figure in the bed stirred, a soft groan leaving his lips as he returned to the land of the wakeful. A hand reached up and rested against his forehead as though cooling it down, before he rolled onto his side and grabbed the watch that was resting on the small table next to the bed.

It didn't take him long to recognise the time as eight o'clock in the morning and soon he was up and dressed. He opened the curtains and marvelled at the view. The waves were beating against the sheer cliffs, the sun shimmering off the water, it looked truly idyllic and yet somehow he didn't quite feel that the tranquil setting would be reflected in this little cottage.

Finally, John made his way out of his bedroom and down the corridor towards the kitchen. He couldn't smell any breakfast, but then again that didn't mean Sherlock wasn't awake, after all he rarely ate when he could help it. It was usually up to John to force any food down his throat or else threaten him with refusing to help him with cases (although that threat didn't generally work).

The male entered the kitchen glancing around him to see if he could spot a familiar mess of black hair anywhere. However, there was no sign of Sherlock in the kitchen and for a moment the doctor felt slightly relieved, maybe his friend was asleep, maybe he was actually taking his advice for once. John filled the kettle up and flicked it on, heading to the living room whilst it started to boil.

Alas, all hope that Sherlock was sleeping was dashed as he spotted his friend settled in one of the armchairs, his feet tucked underneath him and his long fingered hands steepled together under his chin. His eyes were closed but John knew better than to hope he was asleep, he was probably lost in thought or else slowly dying of boredom.

"Good morning, John." His friend's eyes were still closed as he spoke and John had to bite back a sigh and a number of questions and simply settled for greeting the man with a simple 'good morning'. He hurried back into the kitchen and made his cup of tea as slowly as was humanly possible. He needed to take his time; otherwise he was going to kill the great Sherlock Holmes right here with no qualms whatsoever. Now whilst certain members of the police force wouldn't necessarily mind a world without this particular sociopath but he was quite sure Lestrade and Mycroft would have something to say if the detective turned up decapitated in a small cottage by the sea.

"Why are you taking so long? It normally takes you five point three minutes to make your morning cup of tea but you've been in here for ten point two."

"What?"

"You're taking twice as long as normal to make one cup of tea, John. There's obviously something bothering you. As you haven't spoken to me properly this morning I can only surmise that I am, once again, the cause of your irritation. Although seeing as I have said only three words to you today I fail to understand why you're annoyed with me." John took a deep, calming breath before he filled up his mug and turned to face the detective.

"I'm not annoyed-"

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are, your posture is clearly defensive, you've had to take several deep breaths since I entered the room and your tone is rather curt, ergo you are angry with me." John reached his free hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Have you been to sleep at all since we got here?" One eyebrow rose on his friend's face, which was all the answer he needed. "I'm not angry _with_ you. I'm just disappointed that you won't take this opportunity to rest."

"John, I can't rest. It doesn't work like that, I have to keep occupied. I need data, I need problems. Without work I am nothing, John. You can't drag me out to the middle of the dreaded English countryside and then expect me to sit around and do nothing." Sherlock moved towards the window, staring out at the view that the kitchen window afforded. John took a sip of his tea whilst still trying to control his temper. What had he expected? That he'd leave the old Sherlock stuck in London and a new, improved model would appear in Cornwall?

"I don't know. I suppose I just hoped you'd listen, for once." With that he moved back into the living room and flopped into an armchair and the next twenty minutes were spent in silence. Sherlock wandered into the living room and took up his previous position and closed his eyes once more whilst John sipped his tea and his temper cooled faster than his drink.

As silence reigned between them John couldn't help but wish that he hadn't had such high expectations of their escape to Cornwall, maybe then he wouldn't have been so disappointed. It didn't take long for his drink to be finished and soon he was shooting furtive glances at his friend, wondering how best to spark up another conversation that didn't end in him leaving the room in a huff.

Before he could think of anything to say there was a knock at the door and he grasped at the opportunity to disappear from the room. He reached the front door, mug of tea still in hand and pulled it open. There stood a rather short, plump man with short brown hair that was receding rapidly. He was wearing dark trousers, a white shirt covered with a rather odd jacket. John managed to school his expression into one of polite curiosity.

"Good morning." He said, smiling at the stranger and wondering just who this person was.

"Morning," The stranger's voice was higher than he'd expected "My name's Francis, Francis Roundhay. Nice to meet you." The shorter man held out a hand and John took it, the man seemed affable enough but John still failed to understand why he was introducing himself. Was it customary for people to just turn up out of the blue in this part of the country?

"John Watson." He offered another smile before taking another sip of his tea, not quite sure whether he should invite this individual inside or not. After a few moments the decision was taken out of his hands.

"John, why don't you invite the good vicar inside?" Sherlock's voice floated through to him from the living room, and John had to contain his surprise. The man in front of him seemed rather taken aback as well, although whether this was from the disembodied voice or the fact that said voice had, apparently, guessed his profession correctly was yet to be determined.

After a second's pause the doctor remembered his manners and stepped back, gesturing for the man before him to enter the cottage.

"Please come in." He said as Francis stepped past him, staring around at the small cottage before ducking his head into the living room. John closed the door and followed him, gesturing him to a seat before offering him a cup of tea which he politely declined.

Sherlock seemed to have perked up with the arrival of this stranger, his eyes were open and alert as he took in every inch of the apparent vicar.

"I just thought I'd pop in to say 'hello', I live down the road in the vicarage. I always make a habit of getting to know the new people around the village." The vicar gave them a polite smile, and John found himself warming to the man.

"Well, it's lovely to meet you. This is Sherlock Holmes; we've come down here for a short holiday from London." Sherlock barely inclined his head at the mention of his name; his eyes were still fixed on the vicar. John could only guess at the deductions he was making and silently hoping that he wouldn't say anything too offensive to the first person they'd actually met.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The vicar's eyebrows furrowed for a moment before a look of recognition dawned on his face. John didn't know whether to be happy or terrified by that. "So you're _the_ John Watson, the one with the blog?" The doctor could feel his cheeks beginning to burn and refused to look at his friend.

"I do have a blog, yes." He heard something that seemed a cross between a sniff and a cough coming from his friend but he ignored it.

"I read it all the time!" Such an enthusiastic response was not something John had expected and he was slightly caught off guard. "I was most impressed by your write-up of your last case. I'll never understand how you make all those deductions, Mr Holmes." His attention shifted to the younger man in the seat. Sherlock didn't seem fazed by the flattery; instead he simply offered a rare smile.

"They're simple enough, once you understand what to look for." John couldn't quite believe how polite his friend was being, whenever _he_ complimented the younger Holmes brother he was given a look and then told that he was being too dense otherwise he'd be able to make these connections himself.

"I don't think I'd be able to do what you do, Mr Holmes." Mr Roundhay gave a small chuckle, glancing over at John as though to include him in that statement. The doctor had been told many times that people didn't understand how he coped with Sherlock on a daily basis, but John found it easier than most.

Sherlock offered a small shrug and closed his eyes once again; it would appear he was bored of their new arrival. The vicar looked slightly alarmed, his gaze switching between the detective and the doctor as though wondering what he should do.

John waved a hand airily as though to say 'don't worry about it', the older man nodded slowly before he stood.

"Well, I'd better be going. I thought I would just introduce myself." John stood too and walked him to the door, pulling it open and stepping back so the vicar could leave.

"It was lovely to meet you, Mr Roundhay."

"Francis, please. And it's always a pleasure meeting holiday-makers. You must come down to the village some time, there's a karaoke tonight in the Halzephron Inn, a good night is generally guaranteed." John had to try and contain a snort at the thought of both the vicar before him and Sherlock crooning along to a Queen number.

"Thank-you, we'll try and get down there at some point during our stay." He would do his best to make sure that the visit was as quiet as possible for Sherlock so any trip to the local pub could wait. With that their visitor left and the cottage gained a sense of peace and quiet at last, John stood by the door for a few moments before he moved back into the living room. Sherlock still sat cross-legged, his eyes closed, refusing to acknowledge anything other than his own thoughts.

At any other time John might have welcomed this rest bite in the usual torrent of either activity or boredom from his friend but today he would have preferred Sherlock to be alert if not running around the place like an energetic puppy. He knew his friend had to take it easy, bloody hell he'd said it enough himself but seeing Sherlock Holmes being almost motionless seemed wrong somehow. As this thought crossed his mind he couldn't help but be transported back to that evening, finding the detective unconscious on the floor, vomit coating his lips and pooled next to his head. His face was pale, paler than normal.

As swiftly as he could he moved out of the living room and into the kitchen, he reached the sink, shoved the tap on and stuck his head down to lap up the water gushing forth. It was incredible the effect that memory had on him, every time he relieved it whether it be in his dreams or during his waking hours it never failed to make him nauseous.

"John?" The doctor turned off the tap, wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket before turning round and heading back into the living room. The detective had his eyes open now, gazing curiously up at him. "Are you alright?" It seemed such a stupid question to be asked by the man who'd only recently begun to recover from an overdose.

"I'm fine, Sherlock." His friend looked like he was going to argue but John cut him off, "Don't you want to explore? Or are you now attached to that seat?" This awarded him a glare but after a moment of silence the long-limbed detective uncurled himself from the seat and stood up to join him on a quick tour of the cottage and maybe the surrounding area. It wasn't anything grand but neither was it something to sniff at. It would suit their purposes just fine, although he had the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock was not thinking quite along the same lines.


	4. Experience comes from bad judgement

I am so sorry I haven't been able to post a new chapter for this; University really got on top of me recently and with my dissertation coming up chapters are going to come on a very odd basis. I have about half of Chapter Five written up and I'll try to finish that before the semester starts. Thank-you to all of you who have reviewed so far and all those who have been pushing me to update. It's wonderful to know that you guys are enjoying this, plus the last episode of Sherlock definitely helped with muse stakes seeing as they included 'The Devil's Foot' elements. Get in Godtiss!

_Good judgement comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgement. - Jim Horning_

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><p>It was with little regret that they didn't attend the karaoke that night, Sherlock for once seemed to feel that an early night would be beneficial and not long after the sun had set he was in his room. John highly doubted that he was actually sleeping but as long as he wasn't causing trouble, or over-exerting himself then he was happy. It had been somewhat odd for his friend to leave the living room so early and John had allowed himself a good half an hour frantically re-checking his medical supplies and mentally double-checking that he'd gone through Sherlock's cases to ensure there were no drugs concealed in it.<p>

Another person might be appalled at his behaviour but in his experience of habitual drug users you could never be too careful. Any change in routine could end up being a sign that the patient was back on or trying to get back on the narcotics. Thankfully he'd found everything in order, every pill was accounted for, every box still in place. Although it wouldn't be above Sherlock to have memorised the layout of his medical bag.

That first night had been odd for John; he didn't know if it was the sound of crashing waves instead of steady traffic or the fact that this cottage was so remote but something hadn't feel completely right. He'd put it down to simply spending too much time around Sherlock, it had made him far too suspicious of everything, he found himself over-analysing everything even the most innocent of actions. Tonight was very much the same; something was different and he just couldn't put his finger on it.

He rolled over onto his side in bed, the duvet curled around his body to keep in his body heat, reaching a hand out for his mobile on top of the bedside table. He unlocked it and stared morosely at the stubbornly missing signal bars. He'd expected this, he'd even looked forward to this lack of contact with people from London but now he was here he almost wanted to text Lestrade…or just anyone. Could he really survive all this time with only Sherlock to talk to?

With a soft chuckle he clicked on the 'messages' icon and scrolled down to find the last text their favourite Detective Inspector had sent:

_Make sure he comes back in one piece. Good luck. L._

Lestrade would never tell anyone how much he actually cared about Sherlock, it wouldn't do either of the men any good but John could read it in little gestures. Whilst the Inspector might hate him at times, might want to strangle him for ignoring procedure or putting people in danger he was always aware that without the detective things would be a lot harder.

He closed the message, turned the phone off and settled back under the duvet. His head fell back against the pillow and he stared up at the ceiling once again. It was odd to fall asleep in almost total darkness, no streetlights peeking in through the gaps in his curtains instead he had the lapping waves on the shore to lull him to sleep. For some this might seem utterly relaxing however for John the quiet was disconcerting. It reminded him of his time in Afghanistan; to use a cliché it was far too similar to the quiet before the storm.

The male took a deep breath, trying to relax his tense muscles but he kept on expecting something to happen. God he needed to calm down. Somewhere outside a gull shrieked and the water continued to splash against the rocks and coast. Slowly his eyes fluttered shut, his breathing evened out and eventually John Watson fell asleep.

The cottage was quiet, only the occasional creaking floorboard broke the silence. However, John was the only one asleep. Sherlock was sat upright on his bed staring morosely at the opposite wall, attempting to ignore the pain that was shooting through his body. He'd been through the worst of the withdrawal; had spent sleepless nights writhing in agony as the last vestiges of the drug were pulled from his body. He knew John had barely left his side the entire time but even that didn't stop him wondering how best to get another fix.

He let out a frustrated growl as he continued to glare at the wall, wishing the pain away, wishing for just one more ounce of the drug to get him through tonight. He'd been through this once before but then it had been Mycroft who'd watched over him, he'd simply been told he was selfish for putting Mummy through so much anxiety. He'd nodded his head once, accepting the blame but by no means willing to get clean. Why should he?

Then this ex-army doctor had limped into his life and suddenly it was a lot harder to think only of himself. It became difficult to keep taking the drug, especially when John knew what he was doing and would put on that disappointed face. That alone was worse than any shouting matches or threats to call Lestrade and have him arrested. Since when had he ever allowed someone to affect him so badly?

He had never wanted a companion; he functioned better alone. Or so he had thought before John Watson appeared. Now he couldn't imagine handling a case without him by his side, who would he giggle with at crime scenes? Who would even make him giggle in the first place? His life without John seemed incredibly dull now he looked back on it. His cases had been the only important thing to him and with the way he had lived so far it was a miracle he hadn't been killed. Nowadays he was slightly more careful, less reckless than he would have normally been just to ensure that his friend remained unharmed.

John had embedded himself in his heart, as disgustingly sentimental as that phrase sounded. He knew that his brother was exceptionally pleased by the outcome of their meeting; Mycroft had always wanted someone on the inside in order to keep an eye on him and whilst he doubted John would willingly spy on him for the elder Holmes he did have an annoying habit of keeping Mycroft up to date on most things that happened to Sherlock.

He gritted his teeth as his a cramp seized his leg. He stretched it out as best he could, trying to wiggle his toes but the pain didn't seem to ease at all. He knew he needed to sleep. He was more tired than he'd been in years but every time he lay down and closed his eyes he just couldn't drift off. That may be partly due to the dreams he'd endured the first couple of days of his withdrawal; they had been terrifying and he'd woken in a cold sweat. He'd wanted to call out for John, to feel the other man pull him into an embrace and to hear his friend's heartbeat, steady and reassuring. Instead he'd sat up in bed, pulled the duvet around him and waited for the sunlight to appear behind his curtains.

From that moment on he'd found sleep extremely difficult; if he was able to drop off then he woke swiftly either because of another nightmare or else because he was terrified of being subjected to one if he slept longer. Instead he sat up in bed, his brain whirring but with no new information to process until the dawn chorus began.

Eventually the cramp receded and he let out a deep breath, his eyes drifting closed momentarily before they snapped open as he heard a sound. It was a deep, rhythmic noise…it was John's snores. A soft smile crept across his lips, he was glad that John had finally managed to fall asleep. He knew that John was worried about him and wanted this trip to help him get better, but the doctor needed rest just as much as he did. He'd hate for his friend to spend their entire time in Cornwall fretting about Sherlock's health only to have his own come into question.

His friend had been keeping a beady eye on him from day one, which Sherlock supposed he was entitled to. He'd never meant to miscalculate that badly. He hadn't had a case for over two weeks and so had been forced to find something else that could keep his brain stimulated. He'd been clean for months but suddenly John was off on dates with Sarah, Lestrade had refused to give him access to any of his on-going cases and the criminals seemed to have lost all ingenuity. There was nothing interesting. It was all boring!

He'd gotten hold of the cocaine after another argument with John; the good doctor apparently couldn't understand why it was imperative for Sherlock's latest experiment to require his entire sexual history. Sherlock supposed it probably hadn't been a good idea to mention that it was obvious John was getting no sexual favours from Sarah, despite the fact that their relationship was well into its second month. John hadn't taken kindly to that. He'd left the flat leaving the detective, once again, with nothing to do. He'd done what he thought was best at the time.

The minute he'd returned to the flat the drug was opened and injected. He could remember lying on the sofa, revelling in the pleasure he'd been denying himself for months. It had been a tremendous high, better than any he'd experienced but then it had all gone wrong. He'd felt his heart rate quicken as he suddenly began to feel extremely anxious. There was no reason for him to feel this way and yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. He could remember sweat pouring down his face as he flailed widely to try and get off the sofa, to get out of the flat, to just get away from whatever was causing this.

He assumed that after that point he must have passed out. His memory was annoyingly blurred. The only thing he knew for sure was that he didn't want to see John look so terrified ever again. The thought had been so strong, so overpowering that he'd found it difficult to comprehend at first. He'd taken the drug because he'd been angry at John, it wasn't simply a matter of his mind being unoccupied, no, this had been an almost conscious decision to release tension and anger caused by an argument. To spite him. To see his friend looking for all the world as if Sherlock had died had terrified him. He'd never thought he'd mean that much to anyone; after all, no one had ever meant that much to him. Except John.

For months he'd told himself that he shouldn't allow himself to get so attached to people. Bloody hell, he was even beginning to feel some affection for Lestrade! It was John's fault; it was always John's fault. He took another deep breath, trying to relax to the sounds of the waves but sleep was as evasive as ever.


	5. Errors using inadequate data

'Errors using inadequate data are much less than those using no data at all' - _Charles Babbage_

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><p>The sounds of the waves, which had helped to lull him to sleep only a few hours before were now the main reason why he was jolted suddenly awake. That along with the unfamiliar screeching of gulls. There was something extremely peaceful about this place and yet when Sherlock Holmes was in the vicinity peace didn't last long. John was half waiting for the moment when his friend would give up on convalescence and soon be on the trail of another criminal. He wasn't sure quite how many criminals lurked in these seaside villages of Cornwall but if anyone could find them it would be Sherlock. Knowing him he'd even go so far as to committing a crime himself just to break the monotony, and then he'd enjoy confounding the police. He'd probably offer to help and laugh at their ineptitudes.<p>

It was worrying that that idea didn't shock him at all. He'd been living with the detective for too long; far too long if that seemed like the next natural progression for his friend. He rolled over onto his side, staring at the opposite wall where a small crack of light was beginning to appear. Dawn.

He didn't think he could go back to sleep now; he was already too awake. He might as well get up; there was nothing to be gained from staying in bed and just waiting for it to be half-decent time. He pushed the duvet off him, pulling his feet out of the warmth before placing them on the cool carpet. Slowly he stood and stretched shaking his head slightly as his body let out a series of loud cracks; he was most definitely getting older. It sounded like he was falling apart! One day he'd wake up, stretch and an arm would fall off.

John made his way towards the window, drawing back the curtains and blinking rapidly as the sunlight hit his sensitive eyes. A sunrise here was definitely prettier than in London; back in the city you couldn't really see the sun rising for all the buildings, but here he could see it making its way slowly up the sky, the top of it peering up over the sea. If John wasn't so sure that Sherlock would never survive in the country for too long he'd have suggested a move down here. It would be lovely to wake up to this view every morning, although maybe not waking quite so early every day just to see it.

The doctor spent a few moments staring out at the gently rolling waves before he turned around and headed for his bedside table; picking up his watch he noted the time and groaned again. 4am was definitely too early to be awake and alert. Still since he was out of bed now there was no point crawling back under the covers, he might as well just grab his dressing gown, slippers and sit in the living room. Make himself a coffee maybe and read one of the books he'd brought with him.

He quickly did just that and was soon settled on the sofa before the empty fire grate with a book in hand and a mug of coffee on the small table next to him. He was soon engrossed in the novel and when he finally managed to look up the clock on the mantelpiece was telling him it was 8:15am. Normally he would have chuckled, surprised that he'd managed to lose four and a quarter hours simply by reading but right now he found himself worrying about Sherlock wasn't up yet. Sherlock was never good at sleeping, as he often liked to say it was 'dull' and especially after their trip to hospital he'd been finding it even more difficult to actually fall asleep at all. However, he'd been getting up between 7 and 7:30 in the morning every day for a while now. John didn't know whether he should take this as a sign that his friend had finally managed to fall asleep properly and was simply having a lie-in or whether he should be worrying that something had happened.

John knew he could be overprotective at times but there was something about Sherlock that just inspired it in him. He'd had best friends before (unlike the detective) and had always cared a great deal for them, but then Sherlock had waltzed into his life needing someone to remind him to eat, drink and sleep. Practically needing a handler there 24/7 and John had found himself slipping into the role with ease. He'd moan about it and grumble that he had to do almost everything for the younger man but at the end of the day he wouldn't trust anyone else looking after his friend. For some reason John had taken it upon himself to keep Sherlock happy and healthy and it was an extremely difficult task.

Slowly he lowered the book and glanced over at the door through which he'd entered earlier. There was no sound coming from any other part of the house. Was it worth knocking on his friend's door? Just to check. It couldn't hurt, could it?

With that thought he stood quickly, placed his book next to his now cold coffee and hurried out of the room, down the corridor and towards the room Sherlock had claimed as his own. He stood outside the door for a few moments, his ears straining for any sort of sound coming from within. He pressed his ear against the wood but still couldn't hear anything. Eventually he raised a hand and knocked lightly on the door, calling his friend's name quietly as he did so. There was no answer. John frowned and knocked again, louder this time. Still no sound came from within.

His hand moved down to the door to the doorknob and twisted it, finding himself slightly surprised that it opened. He pushed into the room and glanced around. It was empty. Or rather there was no Sherlock Holmes to be seen anywhere. The bed sheets were rumpled but only in the top half; so he probably hadn't slept but had spent the night sat up in bed. Great.

John spent a few moments looking for a note or something that would tell him where the detective had gone but none could be found. It was as though his friend had just disappeared into thin air. He racked his brain trying to remember if he'd heard anything earlier, if any small sound had woken him that would account for Sherlock's sudden disappearance. However, no matter how hard he tried he couldn't think of anything. Not the rattle of the front door nor the creak of a floorboard.

With a resigned sigh he made his way out of Sherlock's room and headed back towards the living room, flopping back on the sofa but not picking up his book. He stared at the grate, wondering where his friend had got to. He was worried, certainly but not overly so. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to go out for walks when they were back at Baker Street so maybe he'd felt the need to do so here. It would help him get to know the area better and might help his boredom slightly. Anything to stop him shooting the bloody walls.

He knew that he just had to wait for the other man to return, then he could make sure he was aware that he couldn't just run off whenever he felt like it without leaving some sort of note or message. He could be anywhere, be doing anything! At this thought John felt his insides begin to writhe. What if he had found someone who could get hold of cocaine? What if he took it again? What if he was laying in an alley somewhere, needle sticking out of his arm and no one to help him?

The doctor rubbed at his face with his hands, trying to scrub the mental image of his friend lying dead in a ditch somewhere out of his mind. It was no use. He'd have to go and look for him. He couldn't just sit here, not know he was thinking about that. With a groan he pushed himself off the sofa once more and headed to his room, feeling annoyance beginning to build. It didn't do enough to bury the fear that was growing as numerous images passed before his eyes but it quickened his movements and made the idea of punching his friend extremely tempting.

He took of his pyjamas, grabbed trousers, a shirt and a jumper and pulled them on swiftly. Not bothering with socks and simply shoving his feet into his shoes and doing up the laces. He didn't intend to be out long, just long enough to find the detective and give him a damn good telling off for just leaving like that. This wasn't London and they couldn't go back to how they'd been before his overdose. Things were different now and he needed to accept that. He couldn't just go wandering off whenever he felt like it, not anymore. John knew that Mycroft would now be watching them all carefully and he'd been assured that the flat had been thoroughly searched, all drugs disposed of and the bloke who'd sold them to Sherlock was not going to be bothering them again. John wasn't sure if that meant he'd been warned off, sent to a warzone or simply disposed of. He didn't really like to ask.

Before long he was ready, he hurried out of his room, grabbed his coat from the stand by the door, picked up the keys lying on the table next it and pulled open the front door. He stopped short when he came face to face with the man he'd just been about to search for. Sherlock was stood there, with the collar of his coat turned up and his scarf in place with a vague look of surprise on his face. John glared at him for a moment before moving aside to let him in; he waited until the detective was safely ensconced in the warmth of the cottage and he'd shut the door firmly behind him before speaking.

"Where the hell did you get to?" He asked, placing his coat back in place with forced calm before turning to stare at his friend.

"I wasn't able to sleep; I simply decided that a walk would do me some good. You're always saying that the sea air would be good for my health; I took your advice. Although I fail to see what it actually does to cure people." Sherlock was staring at him, completely oblivious to the worry that had been shooting through John only moments ago.

"And you didn't think to leave a note saying where you'd gone?" John was trying to be patient, clamping down on his annoyance as hard as possible. It wouldn't do any good to blow up at Sherlock now, it wasn't exactly his fault he couldn't sleep and he'd probably thought he'd be back long before John actually woke up.

At John's question Sherlock's brows furrowed slightly, confusion evident in his face. It was obvious the thought hadn't even crossed his mind; he'd never had to account for his whereabouts before, except when they were on a case.

"I didn't think it was necessary." John placed his hands on his hips, in a gesture Harry liked to call his 'mother hen pose', but at that moment he didn't give a damn. He needed his friend to understand just how important communication was right now; if he didn't tell John where he was going then how was John supposed to trust him? It would take time for them to build up the trust they'd once had and that had to start with Sherlock putting some effort in.

"It _is_ necessary when I have no idea where you are at any given time. I don't need a detailed plan of what you're doing, but if you're going out just leave me a message. It's not difficult. Just do it next time, alright?"

"Why? I was just going for a walk; I fail to see why I have to inform you about it." John took a deep breath, staring down at the tiled floor for a moment before looking up into those cold eyes. He just wanted Sherlock to understand, to behave like a normal human being for one second and realise that this was his fault in the first place and that people actually cared about his wellbeing.

"Because it's important, Sherlock. I'm not Mycroft; I don't have minions running around following people or control the CCTV cameras of every town and city in England. If you're going out just let me know, that's all I'm asking." Sherlock's eyes seemed to soften slightly and he nodded, apparently willing to let the conversation end quickly and easily. It was something of a surprise but most definitely a welcome one. John had half expected his friend to put up a fight, exclaim that it wasn't his fault John failed to pick up on all the minutiae that would explain his absence. He could have pointed out that a scuff mark on the floor obviously said that he was heading out and by the fact that his wallet was still in his room had meant that he had no intention of purchasing anything illegal or otherwise. Thankfully, he seemed content to just let it lie.

"Thank-you," John said eventually, his hands falling to his sides. He kicked off his shoes, leaving them by the door and headed towards the kitchen. "What do you want for breakfast?" He called after him; his stomach was already growling at not having eaten since last night and it desperately missed Mrs Hudson's wonderful fry-ups.

"Nothing." The tone said it all; Sherlock was sulking. John hung his head again only this time it was with amusement. How could anyone not find Sherlock's childish attitude funny at times?

"Don't be stupid, you're having something even if it's just toast."

"Toast is the only thing I'd trust you to prepare. I do not want to come down with salmonella during our holiday."

"I am a perfectly good cook!" John cried indignantly but he couldn't help but smile; Sherlock was accepting it as their holiday, not just an attempt to abduct him from his normal life and smother him in the countryside.

"John, the last time you cooked in the flat you managed to almost burn it down."

"I did not!"

"And upset my latest experiment."

"Well you shouldn't keep flammable liquids next to an oven."

"Tell me, doctor, since when were small mammals liquid?"

"Well not them obviously, but the stuff you were marinating them in."

"I was not marinating them; I was hardly likely to eat them, John."

"Well I don't know about that, you do have some odd eating habits."

"Shut up." John chuckled, turning his attention to the toaster as he placed two slices of bread into it. At least the tension had diffused for the moment and maybe they'd be able to relax.


	6. I feel stronger for confession

'Confession of errors is like a broom which sweeps away the dirt and leaves the surface brighter and clearer. I feel stronger for confession.' **Mahatma Gandhi**

Sorry for the delay in chapters, dissertation and assignments have completely sucked my soul recently. However, I've finished most of my Uni work and soon it'll be summer, so apart from job hunting I should be free to keep this story going. Thank-you to all who've reviewed and stuck with this story; you're all lovely and I adore you all!

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><p>The sun was finally beginning to break through the clouds, casting its glow on the cliffs and the roaring sea. The wind was still quite strong but at least the weather was picking up. John hoped this would signal a similar change in Sherlock's mood. They'd been at the cottage just over a week now and ever since that first early morning walk he'd taken to leaving the cottage at all hours. John could only guess that it helped keep his brain occupied, after all they'd had a relatively quiet holiday so far. They hadn't even seen that vicar around since their first day here.<p>

The worst of the withdrawal symptoms seemed to have passed, finally. There was still the odd involuntary twitched or grunt of pain but it certainly seemed better than before. John was still careful to check his medical supplies regularly but nothing was ever missing or looked like it had been disturbed.

John sighed heavily as he looked out of the living room window for what must have been the fifth in as many minutes. He kept on hoping to see Sherlock appear on the other side, back from his walk and happy to just sit down and relax.

The doctor wasn't sure if he should be encouraging or discouraging these solitary jaunts. It was obvious his friend needed as much rest and relaxation as possible but without proper stimulus Sherlock's brain tore itself apart. He'd once likened it to an engine which needed constant power to keep it going. How could John deny him the chance to think on his own? It wasn't fair to force him to spend every minute of every day in his company.

With a great effort he turned his attention back to the book he was reading; trying to keep his mind on the words in front of him. Since starting his blog properly he'd started reading a lot more crime fiction, desperately trying to pick up tips on narrative. He wanted to do these tales justice, especially since he knew that more and more people were reading his blog. His friend made all these fantastic deductions, solved these extraordinary cases with ease and John just wanted people to be as intrigued and impressed as he had been after that first case. Actually, he was like that after every case…and during them if he was completely honest.

He stared at the page for another few minutes, trying to force his brain to focus before he heard the crunch of gravel. His body tensed, his eyes still glued to the page as the front door opened and he heard Sherlock return home. John tried to relax, he didn't want his friend to know he'd been worrying once again about his whereabouts. He turned the page with no memory of what he'd just read.

Finally the door to the living room opened and out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of his friend shedding his coat, scarf and gloves and dropping them, haphazardly, on the floor. Clearly their holiday hadn't made him any tidier. A moment of silence passed between them as John pretended to read and Sherlock sank into one of the plush armchairs next to the fire. They hadn't had cause to light it yet, not with the central heating working, but John was quite keen on the idea of having a glass of scotch in front of a roaring fire. It had a nice, homely quality to it. Maybe he could persuade Sherlock to let him do it one night?

"Had a good walk?" He asked lamely, finally raising his gaze from the book to the detective. His friend was sat in the chair with his feet resting on the seat and his knees tucked under his chin. He was staring into the empty grate with a blank expression. Definitely a worrying sign.

"It wasn't awful." Meaning that the next words out of his mouth would be… "But this place is dull, John. I need a case. I need something to do. I can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"It's helping you." John's voice was patient; they'd had this conversation numerous times over the past couple of days. He was used to it now and had a vague idea of where it would go from here.

"How is it helping me?" Sherlock scoffed, "I'm bored and there's nothing remotely interesting here. The people are denser than Anderson; the scenery is bland and this cottage…" Sherlock gestured towards the whitewashed walls and the pictures that hung on them.

"Well you're not getting out of here, not until I'm convinced you're fine." John lifted the book to block Sherlock from view, hoping that that would put an end to the conversation.

"I'm perfectly fine," He heard the detective grumble and he had to fight the anger welling up inside him. Every time his friend insisted he was fine John kept on flashing back to that night. Sherlock had woken up briefly and told him that he was perfectly fine, just before slipping unconscious again. He'd been less than bloody fine! "It was simply a miscalculation." At that John dropped the book. It hit the floor with a thump but he didn't care. He was suddenly on his feet, blood pounding in his ears and anger coursing through his veins. How dare he say that!

"A miscalculation? How can ODing on cocaine be a fucking miscalculation, Sherlock? Take it regularly then, do you? Probably been taking it all the time, but this time you just made a mistake and it was lucky I actually came home when I did!" He was breathing hard now, his fists clenched at his side as he glared down at the younger man. All the anger he'd felt over the past few weeks was coming out now and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

"Do you know what that stuff does to you? And don't give me the bullshit that it helps keep your mind active. I'm a doctor, I've seen people torn apart by that drug. I've seen people die after taking less cocaine than you, so don't you ever say that it was 'merely a miscalculation', as though you'll be wiser next time. There shouldn't be a fucking next time!" John had started pacing now, no longer able to look at his friend and instead stared at the carpet beneath his feet. His mind was transporting him back to that evening and all the fear was coming back in waves.

"You have no idea what it was like to find you like that. To see _you_ reduced to…that. You pride yourself on your brain but if you keep on taking that stuff you won't have one left. I can't - I won't let that happen, Sherlock. I can't go through this again." His voice was quieter now but his fists were still clenched tightly. The walls were beginning to feel as though they were closing in and all he knew was that he had to get out of this room. He marched swiftly to the door, wrenched it open and hurried towards his room, slamming the door behind him and leaving a thoroughly confused Sherlock in his wake.

XXXXXXXXX

Sherlock blinked in confusion as he watched John walk away. He'd known that his friend was worried about him but he'd been trying to alleviate those fears. He'd started leaving the cottage more, giving John time on his own and trying to show him that he was perfectly trustworthy. Apparently it had not had the desired effect.

His anger had come as something of a shock; Sherlock supposed he should have foreseen it. John had been reasonable ever since his return from hospital; there had to have been pent-up emotions within him from the minute he'd entered Baker Street that evening. It was foolish to imagine that his friend, his sentimental John Watson, would be able to separate his personal feelings from a professional opinion. John could not detach himself from emotions, whereas Sherlock had found it difficult to understand or even feel emotions. Until this seemingly insignificant army doctor had limped into his life.

He stared at the door, his brain racing as he tried to figure out what he should do now. He could understand why John felt this way, but solely because he now knew John. If he hadn't allowed John into his life then he would be at a complete loss as to what had just occurred. As it was he was still finding it difficult to know exactly how to approach this situation. John was clearly upset about what happened, but why? He was obviously used to dealing with addicts, he'd known what to do when he'd found him and from then on he'd been perfectly happy and knowledgeable with the arrangements. Was it just because he thought he'd been mistaken in Sherlock's mental prowess for giving into the drug? Or was it his life he was worried for?

That was a logical solution: that John cared solely for Sherlock's survival. It was a John Watson gesture, one full of sentiment and so very emotional. How was this one man able to feel so much? Able to care for someone who didn't have the slightest idea of how to reciprocate. He knew that he cared for John, that he was a friend and that if anything happened to him…well it was surprising how vehemently Sherlock refused to even consider such an idea. He had never felt like this with Mycroft and he was a blood relation. He had more of a familiar connection with John than he had ever had with any member of his actual family. Never before had he felt so protective of another human being. It was most unexpected.

The slamming of the door only served to prove his hypothesis correct; John was angry at him for endangering his life and was, therefore, scared of losing a friendship. John had been just as alone as he had been, they fit together better than anyone could have predicted. John had slotted into his life quite easily; it had not been a chore to accommodate him.

Sherlock waited several minutes, revelling in the brain work his friend had created for him. John was always able to help him work through problems; he was a conductor of light. Able to inspire brilliance in another person was a prized skill and it proved John invaluable to him. However, he had to be careful otherwise he would lose his only friend and the only person who could help him grow in his career. Growing as a human was a secondary concern, one he had never cared for but when one spent time around someone whose opinions actually mattered it was a necessary evil,

Slowly he unfurled his legs, stretching them before he stood. He needed to try and sort this out.

As he put his weight on his feet he froze. Since when had he actively wanted to reconcile with another person? He rarely apologised for his actions, in fact he only ever really apologised to John. He had never forgiven Mycroft and had never asked for forgiveness himself. John Watson's influence over his life and personality was most definitely great.

There must be a level of guilt within him; normally after an argument with the doctor he would wait for the other man to cool down and then John would approach him and apologise. Either that or a silent agreement passed between them never to mention it again. If he was willing to ask forgiveness then he must feel guilty for hurting John. A mental note was made that Mycroft was never to find out how far this man had wedeled his way into his life.

He took another tentative step forwards, wondering whether it was the right thing for him to do? Should he approach John or leave him? It would certainly bring their problems to the forefront should he apologise, but it could also have a detrimental effect. John rarely believed his apologies and what exactly could he promise to make him trust him again? He couldn't give a guarantee that he would never try the drug again, whilst he hated classing himself as an addict he knew that the definition probably applied to him. What if they had a lull in cases again? He needed something to keep himself occupied and a 7% solution had always been the best thing for that. Mycroft had tried to wean him off years ago but he'd never succeeded, what made John think he was any better?

With a sigh he turned back to his seat and sat down, pulling his legs up and resting his chin on his knees. It wasn't worth making an apology or a promise he knew he could not keep. As another had once told him it wasn't fair. John would calm down and either they would say nothing more about it or…well, either way they'd move on just as normal. This wasn't half as bad as when he'd destroyed the kitchen. Or John's wardrobe.


End file.
